I like goats. I grew up with them. Part of my mother's grand exercise in self-sufficiency. I remember milking them on cold winter mornings, and the way the first squirts of milk rang in the bottom of the tin pan, the warmth of the udder, the steam rising from the fresh milk. The smell of hay.
But even a goat fan like me must admit that they are strange little creatures. Some are cute, like Nubians with their floppy ears and endearing brown eyes; others are not, like Alpine goats; others still are just plain weird looking with Marty Thelman eyes and little stubs for ears.
We never ate goat meat, though my Mom would, from time to time, sell a billy goat kid or two to "the Iranians," who most certainly ate them.
Well, I stumbled across an article today in the New York Times on eating goat meat: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/01/dining/01goat.html?_r=1&em , and loved this description of how they look: "Their unappetizing visage is simultaneously dopey and satanic, like a Disney character with a terrible secret."
Great, great writing. That guy's got 'em pegged.
1 comment:
Ah, goats. I was talking about them with a friend just yesterday. I do love nubians. I don't know if I'll ever get into the meat, though: I don't think I'll ever forget the day that Pete and I were at one of mom's goat friends' house for dinner. We had tacos, we at the tacos, and we liked the tacos. After dinner when we were told they were goat tacos, all I remember were the tears. They were pets, not food, right? I remember thinking people couldn't possibly be any more cruel... The traumas of childhood.
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